


Enough is not as good as a feast

by belmanoir



Category: Dracula (TV 2013)
Genre: Backstory, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-12
Updated: 2013-12-12
Packaged: 2018-01-04 11:30:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1080495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belmanoir/pseuds/belmanoir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Renfield settles into his new life. <i>He cannot escape the bizarre conclusion that his employer, Vlad Ţepeş, terror of the Danube and scourge of the Order of the Dragon, has been weeping and rearranging the sitting room furniture in the middle of the night.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Enough is not as good as a feast

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mrs_laugh_track](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrs_laugh_track/gifts).



_1884_. 

Renfield is woken by a thud from the next room. He sits bolt upright, heart pounding. This is the first time in his association with Alexander Grayson that they've stayed in a house rather than a hotel. Have his employer's enemies taken this chance to move against him? He listens, but there are no more sounds. 

Throwing back the covers, he moves slowly to the door. A creak and another thud, smaller. Renfield creeps as quietly as he can towards the sitting room, picking up a heavy vase on his way. But the only thing in the room is Grayson, slouched in a delicate Chippendale chair staring at the fire.

The chair wasn't in front of the fire when Renfield went to bed. In fact--he appraises the room--the whole layout of furniture was different. The thud must have been the enormous sofa, now clear on the other side of the room. Grayson's great strength is borne in upon him once more.

Grayson glances round, unconvincingly affecting surprise. "I'm sorry, Renfield, did I wake you?" Are his eyes red-rimmed or is it the firelight?

Renfield cannot escape the bizarre conclusion that his employer, Vlad Ţepeş, terror of the Danube and scourge of the Order of the Dragon, has been weeping and rearranging the sitting room furniture in the middle of the night. 

He debates as to the best way to react. Should he pretend not to notice, as Grayson clearly wishes? Politely claim he wasn't sleeping? Would offering to help seem the friendly impulse of a fellow man, or a servile instinct? In the end, he settles on a bland, "Have you been moving the furniture, sir?"

Grayson's eyes glint with amusement. He seems to find Renfield's sarcasm charming. Renfield has been carefully feeling out how far he can go, but he hasn't yet hit on the boundary. "Sometimes I get restless in the night. I beg your pardon; I'm no longer accustomed to sharing my dwellings with another living soul." He draws out _living soul_ , tongue lingering on the final L. He smiles, evidently enjoying the irony. "Go on, return to your bed. I promise absolute silence."

Renfield can't help his flutter of arousal, just at hearing Grayson say _bed._ It never previously occurred to him that someone who had sexual relations with a superior for advancement might actually feel lust for that superior. He knows Grayson intends to have him one of these days, and hasn't yet decided whether to allow it. It would almost certainly be a serious blunder; men break things off with their mistresses much more frequently than with their lawyers or secretaries. But he remembers lying on the floor of that train car, blood in his mouth and Charles Rannick's voice in his head: _Lost another gamble, have you, Renfield? When will you learn to be more careful?_

That voice always urges caution and circumspection. It's wiser than he is. But Renfield won that gamble spectacularly.

Grayson's smile spreads as if he knows the effect he's having, but there's nothing triumphant in it, nothing to make Renfield draw back. He's good at what he does. His desperate eagerness for Renfield's good opinion must be largely flattery, but the flattery is flattering. Renfield smiles to himself at the tautology, and Grayson leans forward like a puppy hoping for a scrap of meat.

Renfield does draw back at that thought.

Grayson's smile stiffens. "I have something for you." He stands with a clatter of heels and strides to a side table. He's showered Renfield with gifts over the last few months. Renfield wishes they weren't all so well-calculated to please him. 

Grayson takes up a packet, lips tightening when he touches it. He unwraps it as if it were red-hot, with winces and little jerks. But he catches up the crucifix that tumbles out, its chain long enough for even Renfield's neck, and holds it out, face immobile and hand twitching in pain.

Renfield quashes the urge to leap forward and snatch it from him. He counts how long before pain forces Grayson to drop it with a curse. 

Fifteen seconds. No doubt long enough to drain his blood. 

"You know that can't keep me safe from you. On the contrary, you've just proven that you're willing to bear the pain to get what you want."

Grayson turns away, cradling his burned hand for a moment. Is it a coincidence, how the firelight limns his pale, Byronic profile? "A lawyerly mind." His voice is tinged with bitterness. "Do you know, Renfield, people enjoy my bite."

Renfield grits his teeth for a moment, trying not to imagine it. "I'm sure they do, sir."

"They enjoy it because there is something in it--an element Van Helsing will isolate one of these days, no doubt--that produces a kind of physical ecstasy. But more than that, it produces a desire to please me. A longing to obey."

Renfield stands like a statue. That's what he fears more than anything. He'll never be anyone's happy slave. Never. He will die first.

Grayson turns his head. His eyes bore into Renfield's. "I intend to rely on your independent judgment. There are days to come when I will need it even more than I do now. I would never do anything to compromise it."

Renfield's breath comes fast. No one, in all his professional life, has ever seen his independent judgment as anything but a faintly embarrassing inconvenience. And if Grayson wanted to bite him, surely he would have done it already. Surely. "It's cold, sir. I had better go back to bed."

It's a lie, but Grayson nods and crouches down by the fire as if he's cold too. "Sleep well."

Renfield can't sleep at all. Grayson's desire is enough like a drug without the exercise of his supernatural powers. The urgency with which he wants is the greatest flattery of all. Renfield imagines how his eyelashes will sweep down over his sharp cheekbones, the desperate breaths he'll take. How his narrow chest will shudder under Renfield's hands, even without a heartbeat.

 _Would,_ he corrects himself, not _will._ Would.

###

"I don't pay you enough, Renfield." Grayson pours himself a glass of whiskey after a grueling four-hour discussion of the contracts for his latest purchase. It's the kind of thing men say when they have no intention of giving you a raise.

"I wouldn't say no to a raise, sir."

Grayson tilts his head to the side, arrested, then shakes it. "No, a raise isn't sufficient. What would you say to a bonus?"

 _Yes._ But Grayson only chose a bonus because it's more dramatic. Renfield is obliged to think farther ahead than this moment. "A bonus only comes once. A raise comes every month."

Grayson laughs delightedly. "You're a man who knows his own worth, Renfield. I admire that."

"Thank you, sir." Renfield thinks that plenty of people know their own worth. They've just given up on anyone agreeing with them. 

Grayson steeples his fingers and leans back in his chair until its two front legs leave the floor. "Ask me for the most extravagant thing you can think of by way of a bonus, and it's yours. Assuming, of course, that it's not actually impossible."

Renfield considers. This is an opportunity he can't let pass. Besides, Grayson will be disappointed if he isn't outright brazen in his demands. He knows to the penny what his employer is worth. Is twenty percent too much? Is ten too little? "I want fifteen accounts of two thousand dollars each at fifteen different banks of my choosing," he says at last. "In my own name only, free and clear." His heart pounds. Will Grayson really give it to him?

Grayson leans in. "And how do I know," he says in the same purr he uses for seduction, "that you won't take your money and run?" 

Renfield wonders if he could. Would Grayson let him go? It doesn't matter. $30,000 is more money by several zeroes than anyone he grew up with ever saw, but compared to what he stands to make by staying, it's a pittance. Insurance, so he won't walk away with nothing if Grayson is killed unexpectedly. "You don't," he says calmly. "But I'll stay." 

Grayson's smile is a ray of pure pleasure, bright enough to catch dust motes in the dim room. "I believe you to be a man of your word. Very well."

Two weeks later he slides the paperwork across the desk, elaborately casual. Fifteen bank-books, fifteen deferential letters from bank managers. "Your photograph has been sent for identification purposes."

"This means a great deal to me, sir," he says quietly. "Thank you."

Grayson's gaze thrums like a live wire. "When do you expect to make up your mind, Renfield?" 

His pulse quickens. "About what, sir?"

"About whether or not to take me as a lover."

There it is, in the open. Renfield is caught by that gaze like a mongoose hypnotized by a cobra. But there's an artificial, malicious note in Grayson's voice. He's playing with Renfield. The intensity that's Grayson's trademark is half real and half a show to discomfit people. Does he want something other than the obvious, or is he merely in a mood and tired of not getting his way?

"I couldn't say, sir," he says dryly. "I would hate to come to a conclusion prematurely."

Grayson makes a huffing sound in his nostrils that might be a chuckle. "I find that worrying overmuch about the timing of one's conclusions spoils the fun of a conversation," he says, as always taking the double meaning and removing any subtlety from it. The hum in his voice is now just ordinary theatrical flirtation, devoid of real intent. "After all, I never limit a man to only one." He smiles, amused and wicked, and spreads his legs wide as he tilts his chair again. "But I do admire your commitment to really _thorough_ deliberation."

Renfield swallows hard. 

###

Like most men, Grayson is irritable when hungry. A Grayson who has just eaten someone, on the other hand, is expansive, confident, full of fun. Those mornings are easy after the first hour or so, when Renfield is still half-asleep and Grayson circles him like a dynamo, reading aloud from Van Helsing's letters, buttering his toast, and demanding enthusiasm for the expensive coffee he ordered from New York. Even that isn't too unpleasant. It's excellent coffee.

But one morning, Renfield wakes up early and hears water running in the bathroom sink. He goes down the hall. The door stands open. Grayson bends over the sink scrubbing furiously at his soapy cuff, the wool visibly swollen and frizzing. Renfield grimaces. 

Grayson turns toward him like a small hunted thing and catches the look on his face. 

He snarls. It's the first time Renfield has seen his extended incisors. He stands very still and meets Grayson's eyes.

"Why don't you just say I disgust you and have done with it?" Grayson hurls at him.

Renfield blinks, startled to realize that Grayson believes his concerns are moral rather than practical. He doesn't know how to explain that he is ruthless too. He has his own victims. Too many to count, but a few stay with him: his father, whom he left as soon as he could and who died of influenza while Renfield was in prison. His first love, who scraped together the money for his first suit and whom he let drift away because he couldn't learn to speak properly. The only boy in Sunday school who could have shown him up, who stuttered when he was nervous. Renfield made sure he was nervous every Sunday. 

Renfield ate them, and he didn't need to do it to survive. Like Grayson, he has never believed that enough is as good as a feast.

He doesn't say that. Grayson wouldn't understand.

"Actually, sir," he says truthfully, "I was thinking that if you're going to get blood on your suit, you should wear one that washes well."

Grayson stares down at his cuff as if he hadn't noticed it existed until that moment. He laughs, too rolling and airy. "A fair point." His smile stretches unhappily across his face. "Go along to breakfast, I'll be in soon to discuss the Carnegie stocks." And he bangs the door shut in Renfield's face.

Four hours later, he emerges from the bathroom all easy apologies. "I wasn't myself," he says.

Renfield doesn't say that whatever else a man may be, he is always, necessarily, himself. 

###

In the end, there isn't any dramatic tipping point. One day Renfield realizes that what he has is not enough for him. Every fidget and twitch of Grayson's fingers, every dip of his voice, every tilt of his shoulders and every gradation of his expression sets Renfield's teeth on edge with thwarted wanting.

He waits to see if it passes, but it doesn't. One morning Grayson is at his shoulder noisily and lengthily dissolving a misshapen lump of sugar in Renfield's coffee with a spoon, muttering about why there isn't any fine cube sugar in this godforsaken outpost, and Renfield reaches up--slowly, to avoid startling him--and seizes his wrist. His fingers easily engulf it. Grayson goes very still, letting the spoon fall into the cup with a clink.

Renfield had meant to get over this hurdle with words. He'd even planned them. _Do you remember that decision we spoke of, sir? I've deliberated long and hard..._ But somehow he's already drawn Grayson's wrist to his mouth, pressing a kiss upon it where the pulse would be if he had one. Grayson's hands smell of soap and coffee and butter. 

He kisses the pad of the hand next, and the palm. Grayson sucks in a hissing breath. "Are you sure you've considered carefully enough, Renfield?" He delivers it with a light flourish, but his voice is strung taut.

Renfield looks up and meets his gaze. "No, sir. But I find I can't wait any longer."

Something glitters in Grayson's eyes that brings to Renfield's mind a scrap of verse:

 _Then felt I like some watcher of the skies  
When a new planet swims into his ken_.

He is struck again, sharp and low in his belly, with how much Grayson wants this.

Then Grayson laughs and throws his free arm wide. "Take off your clothes, Renfield," he says, triumphantly autocratic.

Renfield balks. He isn't about to let a fully-clothed Grayson gawk at him. "Only if you do the same, sir."

Grayson's grin widens. His teeth are very white. "Then close the shutters."

They're in a hotel today, a cheap clapboard affair. "Can you be quiet?" Renfield looks meaningfully at the thin walls.

Grayson's eyes flash brilliantly. "If I can't, you're free to stuff a handkerchief in my mouth."

Renfield tries not to move too hurriedly as he closes the shutters and turns the key in the lock. He removes his clothes slowly, hanging them neatly over a chair. Grayson, on the other hand, hums and tosses things about the room with a snap of his wrists. His shoes hit the wall in two distinct thuds. "Oh, please," he says _sotto voce._ "There's nothing suspicious about throwing one's shoes at the wall."

Renfield isn't sure he can muster the voice to contradict him. Grayson is so pleased. He's just thumbed off his suspenders and flung his shirt who knows where; his wiry shoulders and narrow hips glow in the dim light. He prowls over in bare feet and trousers, the shape of his erection clearly visible. "I don't know that I've ever fully understood the word 'barrel-chested' before." He lays his hands on Renfield's sides and slides them in along his ribs, then down so they press flat against his stomach. Leaning in, he drops a kiss an inch or two below Renfield's clavicle, on a level with his mouth. His hair tickles Renfield's chin.

"Your trousers, sir."

Grayson shucks them off, leaving them in a pile on the floor. His cock juts out, confident as the rest of him. Renfield removes his own trousers. To him it feels strange and awkward to be naked in the middle of a hotel suite in the morning, but Grayson doesn't hesitate. He slings his arms around Renfield's neck and leaps, locking his legs around Renfield's waist and straining upward to kiss him. 

Renfield slides his hands under Grayson's thighs to hold him up. His own cock dangles, hard, just below Grayson's buttocks. "Sometimes I forget how strong you are by human standards," Grayson says. "You could probably fuck me like this and not even break a sweat."

"I think I'd break a sweat, sir." He's become used to distance between them. To Grayson being his employer, a man with whom he must be careful not to be too familiar. Surely he can't really dip his head and kiss him as he would any other lover. But Grayson's mouth opens eagerly under his, tasting of whiskey. The arms around his neck tighten and Grayson rubs himself against his stomach. 

"Take me to bed," he whispers.

Renfield carries him to the big four-poster. Grayson makes no move to let go, so he climbs onto the mattress, Grayson under him. There are so many things he's imagined doing, but now he can't stop kissing him. When Grayson's tongue slides into his mouth, he can't believe how soft it is, tangling gently with his own. His cock slides along the sheets and pokes awkwardly at Grayson's hole. He barely swallows his apology.

"Do it," Grayson murmurs. "Fuck me."

Renfield pulls back and looks at him, sprawled across the sheets as graceful as a cat. He remembers all at once that Grayson is very old and must have done this many more times than Renfield has.

No matter. It isn't precision engineering; it doesn't require great expertise. He's done it before. "Oil, sir." The words catch in his throat. He tries to think.

"The stuff I put in the bath," Grayson says ineloquently, and Renfield realizes with relief that neither of them is exactly calm or collected.

"Wait here." Renfield fetches the oil. It's scented with violets, an aggressive, delicate, wealthy smell too strong for Renfield's tastes. He spills some in his palm anyway and coats his fingers. He presses his middle finger against Grayson's anus. Grayson flexes it, inviting him in. He goes. 

Grayson is patient until Renfield's fingertips curl over the secret spot within him, and then he convulses, his fingers digging painfully into Renfield's arm.

"Sir," Renfield reprimands him, and Grayson laces his hands together behind his own head, squeezing his eyes shut and tipping his head back. The muscles in his arms stand out starkly. Renfield doesn't know whether it would be wise to bite them. "You've said you would never do anything to compromise my independent judgment," he reminds him, and then wishes he hadn't. Now Grayson knows he's afraid.

But Grayson takes in a deep breath he doesn't need. His body relaxes around Renfield's fingers, and he opens his eyes. "It may not seem that way," he says in an approximation of his ordinary voice, "but I have excellent self-control." He bares his teeth, which haven't sharpened at all. "I'm not going to hurt you."

Renfield kisses him again, not knowing what to say. Sliding his fingers out, he rubs oil over his own cock. "Tell me if you need me to go slower." Grayson makes a strangled, amused sound and hooks his ankles over Renfield's shoulders, drawing his close with his heels. Renfield presses up against him. The head of his cock meets resistance, and then slips abruptly inside. "Aah," he breathes, almost surprised by the intense pleasure. 

In he sinks, inch by tight, slippery inch. Grayson lies quiescent beneath him, legs trembling a little. His eyes are large and liquid and Renfield doesn't know what to do but look into them. Finally his balls nestle snugly against Grayson's buttocks.

The corner of Grayson's mouth tilts, his eyes shining. "The worst is over," he declares. "Now give me a good pounding."

But Renfield isn't ready for that yet. Curling his hands around Grayson's ankles, he slides slowly in and out, dragging sensation along his length. It's been a long time since he did this, and he's enjoying the novelty of it. Grayson makes impatient, huffing noises and tugs at his own hair. His cock bobs along his stomach. Renfield takes a certain pleasure in ignoring it. Instead, he runs his hands down Grayson's legs, holding his thighs tight against him and thrusting only with small snaps of his hips. 

"I always knew you were a tease, Renfield," Grayson moans. 

Renfield smiles. "I thought you admired thorough deliberation, sir." He's teasing himself as much as Grayson. He'll know when he doesn't want to wait anymore.

"Oh, I do." Grayson arches his back, running his big toe along the back of Renfield's neck. "I admire it enormously." 

Renfield can't take his eyes off his own cock disappearing in and out of Grayson. He's always considered it something of an anatomical miracle that this is possible. 

Grayson takes his own cock in hand, finally, working himself without embarrassment. There's even something of the show-off about the way he stretches, as if he's pleasuring himself out of pure generosity, for Renfield's benefit. Renfield is abruptly no longer interested in delay. 

He slams in hard, and Grayson makes a sharp, surprised _oof_. His mouth falls open and his eyes dilate as Renfield takes hold of his hips and pistons in and out. It feels amazing, unbelievable, as good as he hoped. 

Grayson keeps his eyes open now, unfocused eyes sliding avidly over Renfield's body as if it were a naughty French postcard. Something in Renfield squirms. "Mm, harder, Renfield." There's a smile in Grayson's voice, and Renfield smiles back and ignores him. He doesn't want harder. He wants exactly this--exactly--almost-- _yes_. He shuts his eyes and spends inside Grayson with a sigh.

"Damn it, Renfield, I wanted to spend first," Grayson says in mock indignation.

It's a jest--mostly--but Renfield tenses all over. "I'm not here to service you, sir," he says hotly, and then wishes he hadn't. At least he bites back the second part, about being sorry his stamina didn't live up to Grayson's hopes. Whether or not Grayson expected more from a man of his height and color, he'll be heartily offended at having it pointed out to him. Renfield feels sated and oddly raw, and he doesn't want to listen politely to another speech about how Grayson understands what it's like to be an outcast.

Grayson has paused, eyes narrowed, obviously trying to figure out what play he's acting in now. Renfield wanted this, and looking down at Grayson still filled with his cock, he knows he wants it again. "I'm sorry," he says. "I don't know what came over me."

Grayson blinks. Then he grins abruptly. "Why Renfield, I do believe you've grown fond of me."

"I beg your pardon, sir?" It's an absurd thing to say in the circumstances, but Renfield is floundering, warm euphoria still running through his veins.

"You're right, of course. We shall keep this part of our relationship a pure _affaire de coeur_ , with nothing about it of vulgar exchange." He pulls off of Renfield, the air filling with a stench of violets and spunk, and sits up. He's behaving as if he's just eaten someone, the same pleased swagger.

It dawns on Renfield that Grayson thought he _was_ here to service him. That he had finally overcome his scruples and was doing this for profit.

There are countless gradations between vulgar exchange and _affaire de coeur_ , but Renfield is relieved enough not to say so.

"I suppose," Grayson burbles, "I shall have to return the diamond cufflinks I was saving for the occasion to the jeweler." 

Renfield knows a moment of regret at the thought of diamond cufflinks, rhetorical though they might be. But it wouldn't be safe to wear them anyway. "Quite right, sir," he says, gently shoving Grayson flat on the bed and pushing his fingers back into his ass. Grayson gasps and wriggles and Renfield can ignore the wet squelching his fingers make in his own seed. It's a small mercy that vampires don't defecate. "Plain gold is more appropriate for an affair of the heart. Perhaps on my birthday."

"Anything," Grayson says, low and gravelly in his ear. "Just keep doing that." 

Renfield plans to.


End file.
